Upon an Alter of Madness
by DougWalkerJumpScareOnMyGenital
Summary: Archbishop Benedictus has been a devoted follower of the light his entire life; until suddenly he finds himself plagued with voices that only he seems to hear. Soon the Archbishop is confronted with visions that shake his foundations in the light and lead him down the path that would ultimately take him to the events of the 5-man heroic "Hour of Twilight" dungeon.


_Quick Author's note:_

_This is a very short story I did concerning Benedictus (the old priest guy from the one heroic dungeon in Cata, with Thrall, remember?). Basically, I felt his sudden 'IM EVIL NOW LOL' change was drastic, weird and unexplained. So; I wrote a short story just detailing how I think his descent into madness would have happened. To make it fit into the story better, I'm not going to decide or say exactly when this all happens. It could have been years before the events of Cataclysm or it could have been just ten minutes before it. I don't know, and I'm leaving that up to anyone who reads this to decide._

_Also worth noting is I wrote this a couple years ago, back when the Dragon Soul raid had just come out. This is before I knew how to properly edit paragraphs and stuff, so I admit it's a little bit of a mess. It shouldn't be too bad that, so no moderators or anyone should feel a need to can it just for some bad editing._

_Other than that, enjoy my crap fanfiction!_

**"Upon an Alter of Madness"**

"And let thouself always giveth forth to the Light, for the light shall ask only your faith, and you shall receive its blessing; for there is no greater glory than to be one with the Holy Light. Amen." Spoke the aged, but stern voice of Archbishop Benedictus. The crowd of listening church-goers bowed their heads and repeated the Amens, their words echoing with the Archbishops' off the smooth stone walls of the Cathedral of Light, reverberating around all of them before the room abruptly returned to its serene silence.

After a moment of silent prayer, the Archbishop raised his head, the light of the sun bathing his figure in radiance from the large, beautifully paned church windows that were mantled up behind the altar. The sermon ended with the same lines and prayer it had always concluded with, and Benedictus watched calmly from his altar as the members of the church quietly left their seats and shuffled on. Some left out the narrow, double hallway to exit out of the church through the large, open doorways atop the wide, narrow stairways to the city streets. Other members of the audience took different routes, down corridors to deeper parts of the church, to resume their own duties and prayers. When the last of the large room had departed, the few high priests and attendants to the altar bowed their heads in respect to their Archbishop. Benedictus returned the slight bow and dismissed them silently as they too left the altar room.

Alone in the now empty space, Benedictus sighed and slowly stepped down from the tiered altar. He absent mindedly strode to the first of the long, cushioned benches that made up the seating for the room. Sitting down upon it with a slight heave, Benedictus removed his tall, white Bishop's hat, laying the impressive head piece across his robed lap. He looked up to his altar, and then to the shining beams of sunlight that were in full force at this time of day. Though they were blinding, the Bishop looked at them in reverence, as if just by looking upon them he could somehow bring them into his own being. The scene was something he'd always used to anchor his faith, his belief in the Light when his faith would, however very faintly, wane.

Something that began to happen all too very, very often to the aged preacher. As he began to release his mind and spirit to the Light, the whispers began. Just as they had come to do almost constantly when the Archbishop found himself alone. And as always, he first tried to shut them out, the faint whispers in the back of his head. And as always, they began speaking not from inside, but from outside. In an unignorable chorus of steady, low voices as if from the very walls of the church itself. Benedictus looked down from the light, his eyes troubled but still steady. He sighed deeply as he set his focus to the grey, dim stone of the church floor. He shut his eyes, realizing there was no stopping what he heard. In the empty darkness of his closed eyes, the whispers returned back to his head, but this time in full voice. The voices bounced off the inside of his skull, as if physical beings and not just words, the Archbishop still ignored them, rubbing his temples. Feeling his fingertips grow wet, he opened his eyes again to find his was sweating heavily. The voices subsided ever slightly, returning to the very back of his head. With a slight cough, Benedictus placed his headpiece on again and quickly left the empty, foreboding room.

He traveled through a small hallway and entered into a smaller room, this one lit not by commandingly large windows, as it was too far into the church to contain such, but alighted by the soft glow of candles. Among the room were some of the Archbishops' personal priests and attendants, who were currently replacing some of the different things used for the daily sermons of the Light. Seeing the others, and being around them made the voices dim down to silence again. "Archbishop?" came a different, more welcoming voice as one of the attendants addressed Benedictus. "Pardon me, only checking in quick before I move on to my other tasks, is all." Benedictus replied, smiling. "And always remember, your faith in the Light is your greatest power of all." He added, nodding. The attendant looked for a moment, as if finding it odd Benedictus would state such obviousness to his closer attendants, but none the less returned the nod "Yes, Archbishop." He said, as he gave a small bow. Benedictus left the smaller room, but as we walked out again to the altar room, he picked his pace up ever slightly, wanting not to be alone as often as possible. Fortunately none of the usual voices clouded his head as he entered into another passageway to another room, this one used for personal prayers outside the grand altar room that took up much of the Cathedral's space. Here, many of the other church-residers were locked in silent prayers, continuing off the original sermon. "They are fools to waste time like this. Time that could be set out doing proper things."

The voice quickly came and went, and Benedictus nodded to it. His eyes shot open and he gasped out loud, just registering he had actually nodded in… agreement with the voice. The startled faces of the room shot towards the Archbishop, who quickly cleared his throat. One of them looked as if he were going to ask the Archbishop what he needed, but Benedictus turned away and abruptly left the room. Breathing heavily, he walked quickly across the altar room, the only sounds were the clopping of his shoes against the hard stone floor, and his deep, ragged breathing. Up a stair-less, winding pathway the Archbishop went, sliding his hands against the cool, smooth stone as if his body might teeter over without the support, up to the top of the ascent to a solid door. Quickly opening it and sliding inside before nearly slamming it behind him, the Archbishop threw his headpiece off and quickly de-robed to the much more simple, fitting attire he wore underneath it. Here in his personal chamber, the Archbishop dropped his holy adornments to the floor, without the usual careful placement of them back to their proper places. Slowing his rapid walk to a slower, more even pace Benedictus approached his simple, but large bed. Staring down at the plain, white covers for a moment the Archbishop dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain as his soft flesh and older bones collided with the solid stone floor.

Archbishop Benedictus prayed. He prayed harder than he'd ever done before. Asking for forgiveness, asking for guidance. Asking to be the beacon to his people he knew he had to be. In response, came the same, creeping voices. They came from his head, the came from the walls. They came from the bed. From his hands. From everywhere. The Archbishop felt the heavy beads of sweat trail down his forehead and onto his brow. He reached up to wipe it, but felt it only smear across his hand. Looking to his hands, he noticed they, too, were breaking out in sweat. His breath in heaving gasps, Benedictus drew some of the water left in a small metal bowl from the corner of his room, drawing the cold, standing water to his dry mouth not with the metal cup placed next to the bowl, but with his cupped hands. The water splashed into his mouth as well as upon his face and down his chin and chest, adding to the wetness of the heavy sweat. The water tasted almost sort of odd to the Bishop, as if it wasn't right. As if it were out of place. As if it were wrong. Unfitting. The same way everything else was beginning to feel to him.

Sweating, but chilled, the Archbishop licked his lips, his dry tongue an odd contrast to his moist lips. Clearing his throat again, the Archbishop looked down towards his abandoned robe and headpiece. The voices had again resided back down to his head. He slowly gathered the pieces of clothing up and placed them in their locations proper. Still breathing deeply, Benedictus sat down on his soft bed, feeling all of the sudden incredibly drained. Not so much tired as simply drained. Laying down on the bed above the covers, Benedictus rested. The voices again came, but this time they didn't creep out slowly, they simply let themselves out in full tune. The whispers were impossible to hear correctly, hundreds of them overlapping each other, most of them in tongues the Archbishop couldn't even begin to understand. But he heard each of them, anyways. Weary, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift. The voices began to drown him.

The Archbishop opened his eyes again, this time the voices did not hinder him. He stood up from his bed, slowly looking across his room. It was sparse, simple. The followers of the Light did not surround themselves with lavish personal effects. Troubled, but glad to be rid of the voices for the moment being, Benedictus got up from his bed and made his way across his room. He stopped at the water bowl and peered into it. Nothing out of the ordinary. With a slight smile he drew a proper glass of water and drank from it, the water was cool and refreshing. All the more enlightened, Benedictus made for his door. He opened it, and was instantly drawn through it by an intangible force. Before he could make any physical or vocal protest Benedictus was shot through the door, but not into the narrow walkway, but into an unending void of black. Not just darkness, but black. Benedictus could see nothing, not even his hands in front of his face. Looking back in panic to his door way, he found the square of light emitting from the door to be shrinking, though he himself didn't move- as if it were the light and the room that moved away from him. On some level of conscious Benedictus realized he was dreaming, or rather, having a nightmare. Within the void, Benedictus seemed to float, as if no tangible floor or end to the void existed. Breathing deeply, but in steady rhythm, Benedictus simply waited. He waited for what seemed to be days. Waiting in one spot in the empty, black void. Then the familiar voices came to him, this time from all around. Wrapping around him, and Benedictus made no more attempts to fight against them. He almost felt as if he should welcome them.

And from the thousands of whispering voices came one prominent one. A deep, slithering voice that spoke above the others, and specifically to Benedictus. "You are blinded by the Light." Benedictus said nothing in reply, but whether it was because he didn't think speaking to the disembodied voice would do any good, or because he knew it was true- he himself could not quite say. "You are blinded by the Light, Benedictus." It repeated, this time Benedictus swallowed as it spoke his name. "But I, WE, can show you. Show you the truth. Show you what, in the blinding light, you could not see.". Benedictus remained motionless as the voice ended, the other quieter ones chiming constantly in its absence. Benedictus clenched his teeth. In a stern, even tone, as if speaking to his followers he began "And let thouself always giveth forth to the Light, for the light shall ask only your faith, and you shall receive it's bless-" but got no further as the voices changed. Benedictus slightly flinched as the voices all became HIS. His voice whispered in a thousand different dialects, all around him. Benedictus, though his voice shaking, continued. "And you shall receive its blessing; for there is no greater glory than to be one with the Holy Light." As he finished, the voices abruptly stopped. Now the only sounds Benedictus heard were his own deep breathes. And then, he dropped. He fell, down and down. The blackness still all around him. Benedictus tried to yell, to shout for some kind of help, but no voice escaped his mouth. Then, just as quickly as he began to fall, Benedictus came to a stop. "Your prayers fall on false ears. You know this." The same voice commented to the shaken Benedictus. He wanted to begin his prayer again, but then, a dim, purple light cut through the deep black. No light seemed to emit from it, but it somehow shone none the less. It was tiny and distant, but it quickly began to move toward the Archbishop, picking up slightly in radiance and size as it neared. When it was no more than fifteen feet in front of Benedictus, floating the blackness at about chest level, it stopped. Benedictus noted it was round, swaying ominously out in front of him.

"Look, and you shall see the truth. The truth the Light could never give you, Benedictus." Benedictus was stirred to his very bones. He didn't want to look into it. He didn't want to know. Didn't want to see. But how could he not look? His legs, so very stone-like, began to move. His heart and soul told him to stop, but his morbid, sickly curiosity commanded him to peer into it. He approached the orb, and took note it wasn't simply an orb, but a large, peering eye. It's slitted pupil burned with an unseen flame, gazing at nothing. Benedictus, his low lip quivering, slowly stared down into the eye. The eye, seemingly void of any attention, instantly shot to meet Benedictus' gaze, as it tore his site down into it.

Benedictus screamed.

What he saw denied all sanity, was empty of all stability. Twisted, nightmarish creatures fought one another, tearing each other apart with both long, muscular tentacles appendages and sinister, flowing beams of power. He tried to scream again, but this time all he could do was puke blood and bile down his chin and body. At first his coughed them up, but then he couldn't stop himself as the coughing became a steady stream. His life fluids washed down off of him and onto the scene below, adding to the fray. His body shriveled and fell, down into the fighting, crushed beneath the fleshy feet of the battling hoards. Benedictus' gaze now shifted, and he found himself in a new body. A new, larger body. In place of his human hands he now felt jagged, sharp pincers, much like a crab. Spiny, groping appendages skittered along his back and shoulders. And Benedictus felt power behind what he even believed he could have comprehended. His crab-like arms and hands tightened with strength that Benedictus thought would have been enough to snap his preaching altar in half. His scaled chest rippled with raw muscle underneath and his mouth was now less of a mouth and more of slimy, lengthy tentacles.

Benedictus looked like a being of pure nightmare, but what he felt was akin to God-hood. Suddenly he looked upon the chaos with not just delight, but an almost hunger to add to it. There was no winning or losing here. There was nothing to be fought over. There was nothing to gain. There was only power. Benedictus roared in a watery voice. He called out no specific words, but rather a roar of pure, unmitigated emotion. Fury, hatred, joy. Nothing here mattered. A smaller being charged to him flailing its tentacle appendage at Benedictus in assault. Benedictus quickly seized one arm of the being with one of his pincers, and grabbed the rest of it by it's midsection with his second pincer. Raising the creature high above his head, Benedictus looked into what would be considered it's face. There was nothing to be seen. The creature did not look to Benedictus with fear. It did not look to Benedictus with even much desire to fight back. It's face was stoic. Unmoving.

Benedictus clamped hard and the creature fell to the corpse-ridden ground in three fleshy pieces, making not a sound. The emotionless, unmoving expression still frozen on its countence. Benedictus swelled with primal energy. Yes, this was what true power was. Not the vaunted, empty blessing of the "Light". This was an energy, a power, older than Azeroth itself. Older than the Dragons. Older than the Burning Legion, perhaps even the Titans' and the very existence of everything itself. And Benedictus had now been given a taste of it. A taste that he craved more of.

Benedictus awoke on the floor of his room. Picking himself up, the water bowl was thrown across the room, though Benedictus was nowhere near it. Standing, Benedictus smiled. The voices were there, but now he talked to them, welcomed them. They were everything the Light was not. They were power untold. Immortality. Pure. Power. Benedictus slowly dressed himself in his formal Archbishop attire and walked down to the Altar room. From the windows, he could see it was now night out. The altar room was dark, kept lit by nothing. Benedictus casually walked to the front bench of the room, and sat. He looked up at the altar and windows, but in the glass, saw only the blackness of the night. Benedictus removed his headpiece and laid it across his lap, and let his head fall back as he sat, communing with the voices.

Power. Power without limit. It could all be his, and Archbishop Benedictus happily gave his mind, his body and his spirit to the maddening whispers as he smiled in the empty, dark room of the Light.


End file.
